w h a t    y o u ' l l    n e v e r   k n o w
by Paper Flight
Summary: Because even though they live together, each has secrets, a different side to them that the other will never know about.
1. h a l f

**h a l f**

**(m a k a)**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Soul Eater.

* * *

_He'll never know how hard she tries._

* * *

Sure, he may think he knows.

He looks at her when she's studying, stopping by her room late at night just to check on her. Long after he's given up completely and devoted the rest of the night to watching TV, she's holed up in her room dutifully reviewing old worksheets and re-reading the textbook. He looks at her and smiles to himself, thinking that she's definitely the top student in their class and that Ox Ford isn't anywhere close to her level.

But he doesn't even know half.

He doesn't know the constant pressure she feels to be number one, to be the top, to be like her mother was – first in everything. He doesn't know that not only does she go back through her notes, she recopies them by hand again and again to etch them into her mind, that she reads extra chapters so that she'll be ahead of everyone else. He tells her it's too late, and that she ought to go to bed. She smiles at him and agrees, thanking him for his concern, then turns off the lights and crawls into bed. What he doesn't know is that she waits until she knows he's sleeping, then throws off the covers, scurrying back to her desk to study late into the morning. He doesn't know how it feels to always have the ceaseless drive to be perfect, to prove to everyone that she's every bit as good as her mother, and far better than her worthless father. He doesn't understand her need to make him into a Death Scythe that will outstrip her father; he doesn't catch the glances she throws at him every so often, calculating how many souls they have left to reap.

* * *

He watches her train everyday as soon as school officially ends. She marches towards the training grounds, determinedly clutching her gym bag. He leans against the glass window of the weight room and watches her as she lifts weights, doing an insane amount of sets, and then runs laps outside on the track despite rain, hail, or snow. Secretly, without her knowing, he times her splits every day and notices with satisfaction that her times are always, always improving. Vaguely, he wishes that he had the same kind of dedication and commitment that she does.

But he doesn't even know half.

He doesn't know how insecure she is about her physical strength, how aware she is of the fact that she's actually one of the worst meisters when it comes to hand-to-hand combat without any weapons, because she's not as fast as Black*Star is, or as strong as Kilik is. He doesn't know how useless she feels, how inferior she feels because he can fight without her, but she can't fight without him. He doesn't know that every time he saves her from an attack by shielding her with his own body, he's actually cutting her heart into pieces.

* * *

He laughs bitterly when she urges him to play the piano, scorning her and her ignorance of music. Her flattery and cajoling words are nothing to him – just another spectator in the crowd who can't tell the difference between a jumble of notes and real music.

But he doesn't even know half.

He doesn't know that she's spent _hours_ in the library researching books and articles about music; biographies of famous composers and musicians, thick history accounts about the different eras of music, beginner books for those who want to learn how to read music, hell, she's even read books on how to _make_ instruments in a desperate attempt to figure out just how they work, the exact mechanisms behind each note, what makes those different pitches alluring to other people. He doesn't know that she's shed _tears _over her inability to understand music, to understand _him_, even though she obstinately refuses to admit defeat and continues to struggle along, pretending that if she reads enough, she'll understand. But she knows that all the books in the world won't help, because music is something you have to feel and not read.

* * *

Sure, he may think he knows.

But he doesn't even know half.

* * *

_He'll never know that he's the reason she tries so hard._

_~end~_


	2. t w o   w o r d s

**two words**

**(s o u l)**

* * *

_She'll never know that he grew up in the shadow of his brilliant older brother._

* * *

When he was only nine years old, he performed Rachmaninoff's third piano concerto.

For a year and a half, he practiced and practiced and _practiced_. He listened to various recordings and ran through difficult passages thousands of times each_. _He'd wake up early in the morning and practice for hours while his parents stood behind him, listening carefully with a critical ear and taking notes on a clipboard.

"Dynamics," they stressed. "You don't want to sound like a robot. Listen to your older brother."

"Rhythm," they told him, "is one of the most fundamental principles of creating music. Without rhythm, all you have is just a mash of notes."

The little boy listened to everything they said, his odd red eyes (so different from the blue eyes of everyone else in the family) solemnly gazing upon his prodigious older brother.

_Someday, I'll hear those words too._

They weren't cruel to him; they let him eat breakfast and lunch and dinner when he was hungry, and they didn't lock him in his room or beat him. But they never gave him what he truly wanted – the praise he worked so hard for, the praise they lavished upon his older brother. He'd be the last one to go to sleep, still studying the score and carefully taking note of all the dynamics. The tips of his small fingers were hard and callused, and he developed dark circles under his eyes as a result of his lack of sleep. Practicing consumed him – all he could think of was playing the piece_ perfectly_ and finally hearing those two words which he'd longed to hear for so long.

He performed in a concert in front of hundreds of people, the spotlight shining down upon him and the ebony piano. His silver hair was neatly combed. His feet barely reached the pedals.

Flawless.

The crowd was completely silent after he played, stunned and shocked by the music this small child had created, music that grown adults struggled with and feared. Some primal instinct told them that the raucous sound of clapping and cheering would be blasphemous after such a performance.

"It was okay," his parents said. "Work on your phrasing."

Wes didn't say anything, because he was performing at an international tour in London at the time.

* * *

Two words. He just wanted to hear those two words.

* * *

"Well…let's do this." She holds out her hand to him uncertainly, but her eyes spark with determination as she stares at the demon slavering before her.

It's an ugly thing. He can't even tell what kind of creature it is, but he can identify bulging muscles, powerful jaws, and two black eyes glaring evilly at her. He grasps her gloved hand, and his body morphs till it's no longer flesh and blood but sleek, cold metal. The beast leaps towards her, and flashing claws just barely miss her as she ducks quickly and it flies over her head. It turns around quickly, snarling, but she's ready this time and she swings the scythe at its head.

She still isn't used to the weight of the heavy weapon and she misses, slicing off the tips of its pointed ears instead of cutting through the neck like she'd intended. The demon is more agile than she expects, and it lashes out angrily at her with a large, spiked tail, sending her flying and the scythe spinning out of her hand. Coughing, she struggles to get up, but her breath has been knocked out of her. It prowls close to her and crouches, ready to spring forward on muscular hind legs and rip her to shreds.

Suddenly, it gives a whine of surprise and its beady eyes look down to register the black and red patterned blade protruding from its chest. Then it disappears and leaves behind a floating purple soul.

He turns his right arm back to normal and walks over to her, offering her a hand, which she takes.

"You okay?" he asks with mild concern.

"Y-yeah," she stammers awkwardly. He turns away and picks up the soul, unsure of what to do next. How is he supposed to absorb the soul? Is he supposed to chew it, or eat it in bites?

_Screw it_, he thinks, and drops it in his mouth, before swallowing it whole.

"Hey…"

He turns around.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. Back there, I mean, for saving me. You were really great – we couldn't have gotten the soul if it wasn't for you. Well done."

He freezes, and lets those last two words sink in.

His first time hearing them.

* * *

_She'll never know how much those two words meant to him._

* * *

_~end~_

**A/N: **In retrospect, it might've been overkill to have Soul play Rach 3 when he was only nine…

~ Paper


	3. n i g h t l i g h t

**nightlight**

**(m a k a)**

* * *

_He'll never know how scared of the dark she is._

* * *

She was only three, maybe too young to remember.

But she did.

She always had a red rubber ball that she played with. She took it around with her wherever she went, bouncing it on the floor or throwing it up in the air and catching it. She especially liked going out in the park and kicking it around like a soccer ball with her father, while her mother took pictures which would later go into a scrapbook.

One day, it was raining too hard for her to go outside. Her parents were in their bedroom – Spirit was taking a nap, while Kami was trying to read a book despite Spirit's obnoxious snoring. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed around the house, but Maka wasn't scared. She had her Papa and Mama with her, after all – they would protect her from anything. Whenever she had the chance, she'd brag to her friends or random people on the street.

"My mama's the best meister in the world, and my papa's a _Death Scythe!_"

She was playing with the ball on the ground, rolling it away from her, then scurrying after it as fast as she could before it stopped. The fourth time she pushed it, the ball rolled a little further than she expected and slipped through an open door. She walked over to the door and pulled it open, staring down the steps of the dark basement. Thinking nothing of it, she stretched on the tips of her toes and flipped the switch, then proceeded down the stairs in search of her ball. The door swung shut behind her. When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she looked to her right to see the ball resting a few feet away from her. Smiling to herself, she ran forward to pick up the ball.

Then there was a loud BOOM! and the lights flickered out and died.

She wasn't scared, not at first. She quickly ran up the stairs and tried to pull open the door, but the front door, back door, and doors to the basement locked immediately upon shutting – Kami and Spirit were not popular amongst the witches and demons, and though there wasn't much a lock could do, it gave them a small sense of comfort that Maka wouldn't wander outside and find herself the unlucky victim of a vengeful kishin.

It was pitch black, and she couldn't even see the bright red ball, even though it sat on her lap right in front of her.

But still she wasn't scared. Because her mama or her papa would come save her.

So she sat quietly on the stairs, clutching her red rubber ball, and trying her best not to flinch at the sudden thunderclaps.

Darkness encroached upon her, and she shivered. It was cold and dank in the basement; water leaked from some rusty pipes that Spirit had planned on replacing but never bothered to, making eerie splashes against the cement floor. And the thunder was so sudden, there was no warning. It would be quiet, except for the drumming of rain, and suddenly a loud crash would rip through the house, so loud that she clapped her hands over her ears and her heart thudded erratically.

There was only so much a three year old could take, after all.

Crying, she ran up the stairs and pounded on the door of the basement, begging for her parents to come and open the door and release the light and warmth back to her world. But there was no response. Her little fists banged upon the unforgiving wood, and tears splashed down her face.

She sobbed pitifully to herself. "Please…_please!_ Don't leave me alone." She curled up into fetal position and buried her face in her knees.

Upstairs, Kami turned a page in her book and frowned. Something didn't feel right.

"Spirit. Hey, Spirit!"

His only response was to give a loud snore and roll over onto his side. She shook him insistently, but he ignored her.

"KAMI CHOP!" She slammed her heavy novel onto his head, and he jolted awake.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Do you hear something?"

Spirit frowned and cocked his head to one side, listening carefully. He shrugged.

"No, nothing. All I hear is the rain and the thunder."

Kami shook her head. "No, something doesn't…feel right. I'm going to check on Maka." She clambered out of the bed, and Spirit reluctantly followed her, scratching his head. They walked downstairs, calling her name softly.

"Maka. Maka!"

They heard a pounding on the door, and both ran forward. Kami forced her soul resonance into the special locks, and the door swung open. A cold and frightened Maka tumbled into Spirit's arms; he scooped her up, and she buried her face in his shoulder, bawling.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," he said soothingly, trying to comfort her. Kami stood by anxiously, rubbing Maka's back. Maka looked up, her large green eyes wet and shining with tears.

"Don't leave me alone," she whispered. "It's so dark."

* * *

"Maka, why do you have a nightlight in your room? What, are you three years old or something? That's such an uncool thing to have."

Soul could make fun of her for having a nightlight. But after that day, she always needed the soft glow of the nightlight to comfort her in the darkness. It was like a presence, something warm that was always beside her whenever she needed it. When she woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, she could always rely on that warm light to comfort her. It was dependable; not like men were. That day, Spirit had held her tightly and promised that he'd never, ever leave her alone and he'd always be there for her. And she'd learned the hard way that he'd been lying through his teeth.

She knew now that the world was a dark and lonely place, and Soul just didn't know how cold it could be. But this light, this nightlight, it was always here for her.

Always.

* * *

"Don't look at it!" shouted Maka, lunging for Soul, despite her broken wrist.

"Too late!" laughed the witch, flashing the large, perfectly round mirror at Soul. He froze, the tip of his blade an inch away from her creamy throat. His red eyes went unfocused, and they stared glassily at the surface of the mirror, which rippled alluringly.

"Look into my mirror," purred the witch. "It reflects your heart's desires. What is it you truly want, Soul Eater Evans? Do you want to escape your past? Do you want to become a Death Scythe? Do you…want a different meister?" She glanced condescendingly at Maka, who stood rooted at the spot, staring at Soul in disbelief.

"What are you waiting for, Soul? Kill her now, while she's still defenseless!"

But he didn't respond, transfixed by the shining pool contained in the ebony frame gripped by the witch. She smiled gently at Soul.

"Someone kinder, perhaps? Someone who doesn't abuse and yell and nag at you all the time?"

Just an inch, maybe even a fraction of an inch, but Maka saw his head nod.

"Or someone more beautiful? You always did like girls with dark hair," and the witch's form shimmered until her hair was a beautiful raven black, flowing to her waist. "Someone tall, someone elegant, someone _curvy?" _and the witch's body changed until she met all the attributes she'd just listed.

Maka's mouth went dry, as she watched a dreamy expression spread across Soul's face.

_It was dark, it was so dark. She could hear the eerie plinking of water on the floor. She was all alone, and in her mind, she could see monsters with no faces chasing after her. She was all alone, trapped in this darkness. "Help, someone, please…" she whispered, clutching the red ball even tighter._

"Someone…who understands you? Who can appreciate music with you?" The witch looked over at Maka, a look of pity on her face, but her dark eyes shone with malice that Soul couldn't see. "Poor thing," she cooed softly to Maka. "This mirror reflects all the wishes he keeps trapped in his heart, after all. I guess you just aren't right for him." She reached out with a slender hand and stroked his cheek with a pale finger.

"Wouldn't you rather be my weapon?" she whispered seductively.

Maka turned away bitterly and began walking in the opposite direction.

_No one was going to come. She was all alone, trapped in this darkness. There would be no warmth or light to guide her and comfort her, it was just cold, cold, blackness._

Soul's eyes darkened a fraction. "Your…weapon?" he murmured softly to himself.

"Yes, come stay with me, and leave that annoying girl behind." The witch pushed the mirror closer into Soul's face. "It's what you want, after all."

"What I…want. What I want…" His brow furrowed. "No…that's not right," he muttered.

"What?" the witch frowned, and held up the mirror so that it was inches away from his nose. "Look closer!" she commanded. The surface of the mirror began swirling mesmerizingly.

"No, that's not right," he said more clearly. With great effort, he tore his eyes away from the mirror and glared fiercely at the dark, evil eyes of the witch – the only thing that the mirror hadn't changed.

"That isn't what I want," he said firmly, and swung his blade at her, slicing right through her throat. Her eyes widened in shock, and she gave a small gasp.

"You…you…you fool!" she cackled, pointing a finger at him. "You think you can kill me like that? There's nothing you can do to hurt – "

Then his other blade came sailing in from the left, the point piercing the center of the large mirror.

For a moment, it was quiet. Then the glass shattered forcefully into a million shards, and the witch let out an awful shriek.

Maka paused, already a block away from the witch and Soul, hearing the shattering of glass. She clenched her fists tightly.

_Her father had told her stories about the marshlight. It was a small ball of fire, warm and inviting, that lead weary travelers through the hazardous parts of a swamp. When the grateful travelers stretched out toward the dancing light, believing themselves to have crossed the treacherous marsh, they found themselves sinking quickly, unable to resist against the pull of the bog. The last thing the doomed travelers would see was the mocking flicker of the marshlight, still looking as warm and dependable as it first had._

Gritting her teeth, she turned around and started back from where she'd come. When she arrived at the battle site, she found Soul crouching over a rather pale, colorless soul. He lifted it up and dropped it in his mouth. After swallowing it, he stood up and rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.

"Listen, Maka, I – "

Wordlessly, she turned and began walking back towards their home, while he hurried after her. The walk back home was silent and cold. When they reached their apartment, Maka walked straight to her room and shut the door with finality. Soul started to follow after her, but paused, deciding it was better to leave her alone than try to make excuses.

He climbed into his bed, thinking hard. He didn't really remember what had happened during the fight. All he remembered was looking into that swirling mirror and blanking. He closed his eyes and rolled over onto his side. Images floated to his mind – a beautiful, voluptuous woman he'd never seen before with dark and cruel eyes, Maka looking at him in confusion, Maka's face, pale with shock, Maka glaring at him with betrayal…He drifted off to sleep, restless and uncomfortable.

He was only dozing, still caught between the real world and dreamland, so he heard the door to his room creak slowly open. She walked in, looking very pale in the stream of moonlight that flowed from the window. He sat up immediately, blinking his red eyes.

"Hey."

She walked over to his bed without saying anything and sat down next to him. She turned so that she was facing him, her dark eyes grave.

The two sat in silence on his bed, watching the shadows on the opposite wall, created by the snickering moon outside. Then she turned her head to face him.

"Don't leave me, okay?" she said abruptly.

Soul looked back at her, his eyes just as serious, and put his arms around her, pulling her close so that her head was pressed against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat against her cheek, and closed her eyes, feeling the strong, steady rhythm.

"Stupid, I would never leave you. I'll always be here for you."

She noted that he warm, much warmer than the small light she had in her room.

* * *

_He'll never know that he's the nightlight that keeps the darkness at bay._

* * *

_~end~_

**A/N:** I have a question! What's the deciding factor for putting a story in a collection of one-shots, or publishing it as a separate story? Is it length, plotline, or something else?


	4. w a i t i n g

**waiting**

**(s o u l)**

* * *

_She'll never know he got drunk at a bar the day she began dating._

* * *

"She's really sick, and I'm not going to leave her by herself. And Kid called me before, but I couldn't really hear what he was saying. There was a lot of screaming going on…" Black*Star's voice trails off.

"It's cool," he says, "I think I'll ask Maka if she wants to hang out tonight."

"Yeah, okay, I gotta go, I think she's about to – HOLD ON TSUBAKI! YOUR GOD, BLACK*STAR, WILL BE THERE IN A SECOND."

The line goes dead. Stretching, he gets up from his desk and walks down the hall to Maka's room. He blinks in surprise as the door to her room opens.

She's wearing a floaty, sea-green dress that he didn't even know she owned, and her hair is loose, flowing like silk down her back. Instead of her normal combat boots, she's wearing sandals and her toes are painted a dark green, like the color of her eyes. She's clutching a small bag in her pale hands. He grabs her by the wrist as she walks by him, and she pauses, confused.

"Hey, I thought you and the guys went to the movies?"

"Tsubaki got sick, so Black*Star's looking after her, and Liz and Patti kidnapped Kid. Actually, I was just going to ask if you wanted to go with me, but looks like you have plans," he says, motioning at her short dress.

Her eyes widen slightly, and he sees a hint of regret which quickly disappears in place of a happy smile. "I'm going on a date – didn't I tell you?"

The hand on her wrist contracts suddenly, and she gently tries to tug her hand free, but he refuses to let her go.

"With who?" he asks, voice low.

She's taken aback by his sudden change in temperament. His crimson eyes are burning into her own, making a warm blush spread across her cheeks.

"With – with Andrew," she stammers, distracted by his intense gaze. "You know, the new meister that joined two weeks ago. He's really nice," she adds, trying to placate him. "You said you thought he was pretty cool, don't you remember?" she says, laughing weakly. Her wrist is really starting to hurt.

He scoffs. "I'm surprised he asked you out in the first place," he says, his voice heavy with scorn.

She stops trying to pull free. "What's that supposed to mean?" Her eyes grow hard, and the small bag held in the other hand rises threateningly. "Are you saying I'm not pretty enough to get asked out? I'm _seventeen_, Soul. Believe it or not, guys have asked me out before. A lot of guys have, actually. But Andrew's the first one I've really liked." His lip curls, and she narrows her flinty eyes. "He's the first one that's _good enough_ for me," she retorts angrily, noticing with satisfaction the annoyance that flickers across his face. "And would you please let go of my hand? You're cutting off my circulation." The tips of her fingers are turning purple.

He lets go of her wrist suddenly, right when she gives a huge wrench, and she stumbles backwards. Her hand slams against the wall behind her.

"What's your _problem_, Soul?" she shouts. "You _could_ try to be a little happy for me, couldn't you? Shinigami knows I put up with all those girls that used to tramp home with you every other night. If you're pissed off about me dating someone else, why haven't _you _ever asked me out before?" He doesn't say anything, just gazes at her with those blood-red eyes as she brushes past him, irritated. "I'll be back home around midnight," she says on her way out, rubbing her wrist.

Then the door slams behind her and he's alone, still standing by himself in the hall. It's completely silent.

Slowly, he walks towards the kitchen and pulls out a chair, sitting on the edge of it. He digs back through his memories, trying to remember who this _Andrew_ is.

_A tall, athletic looking boy in his late teens stands at the front of the upperclassmen of Shibusen. He has a pleasant smile on his face, and he runs his fingers through his pale blond hair. His laughing blue eyes scan the room, observing his surroundings and taking in every detail. Despite his relaxed and easy-going persona, there's an air of sharpness and awareness around him. Already, girls are beginning to giggle and whisper, exchanging notes with each other and blushing. Even Tsubaki sits up a little straighter, much to Black*Star's annoyance. Soul glances lazily over at Maka, curious, but she's just copying down notes from the blackboard. Stein walks in and introduces the boy._

"_Class, this is Andrew Norris. He's a meister from London, but he'll be studying at Shibusen from now on."_

"_Ooh, foreigner!" giggles Liz, earning herself a glare from Kid. Maka finishes copying down the last line on the board and sets down her pencil, finally looking up at the newcomer. She gives him a calculating glance._

"_He looks friendly enough, don't you think?" she asks, nudging him. He looks up at her, sleepily._

"_Yeah, I guess he's cool. I wonder if he's any good at basketball?" he muses, before putting his head back down on his arms and promptly falling asleep again._

He grits his sharp teeth. Try as he might, he can't find a fault with Andrew, who's nice to everyone, athletic, smart, and overall a _freaking Prince Charming_.

"_He's the first one that's _good enough_ for me."_

Right, probably because he's got blond hair and blue eyes and regular teeth.

"_Shinigami knows I put up with all those girls that used to tramp home with you every other night."_

But those relationships had never lasted long. The last time he went out with a girl had been half a year ago. And it wasn't like he was some sort of womanizer who knocked up women left and right, like her father. It was always the girls asking him out.

They were all so clingy. Maka was different. She was independent. Or she used to be.

"_I'll be back home around midnight."_

He checks the clock on the wall – it's seven. It's so quiet in the house that he's suffocating. He has to get out, go somewhere else. He grabs his dark jacket where from the hook on the wall and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.

He wanders along the streets of Death City, not really sure where he's going. He just wants to go where it's too noisy for him to be able to think. Someone must have heard his wish, because when he turns a block, there's raucous laughter and shouts coming up ahead.

A crooked sign hangs from overhang – _Paper Moon Tavern_. A surprisingly delicate name for such a dingy club, he thinks, but he pushes the door open anyways. He's almost deafened by the blast of noise which greets him when he walks in. It's packed with sweaty people, and the temperature is about twenty degrees hotter, thanks to all the body heat. It's dim on the inside, lit up only by weak red lights and the occasional bright flash of color from the disco ball whirling on the ceiling. The DJ's playing music, but nobody can hear the song over the boisterous shouts of the crowd. Only the pulse of the music from the deep bass is heard. There's all sorts of people there – bikers dressed in leather, teenagers hanging around with their friends. Already, flirtatious barmaids wearing short skirts and revealing tops are shooting him looks, licking their lips suggestively, but he pushes past them and finds a stool at the bar.

He's not old enough to drink legally yet, but he looks older than he is, and he can be persuasive when he wants to. He's learned that it's hard for people to say "No," when someone with blood colored eyes and silver hair and jagged teeth asks for something.

The bartender uneasily pushes him a large glass and walks away hurriedly to go serve some other yelling clubber.

He'd come to the bar in the hopes of escaping the stifling silence back at home, hoping that for noise and distraction. Instead, he finds that the noise is so loud that it blends into the background, and his mind automatically tunes it out.

Maka.

She isn't perfect, not by any stretch of imagination. She's abusive, constantly braining him over the head with some heavy object, though he admits that she's gotten better about it now that she's older. And at seventeen, he can't make fun of her cup size anymore. She's no Tsubaki, or Liz, or even Patti, but she's got her own…something. And after making him a Death Scythe, she'd gotten cooler. Not softer (if anything, she'd been training harder), but more relaxed. They'd spent many a night taking long detours on their way home back from a mission, just talking and discussing life in general, the exhaustion and leftover bonds from their Soul Resonance making it easy to talk.

Because once they got home, their relationship became more awkward.

When had it started? Now, when they made eye contact, one would look away quickly while the other shifted uneasily. Was it after he'd been made a Death Scythe, and he'd begun receiving bags of love letters in his locker? Was it when he got his first girlfriend? Shit, he didn't even remember her name. Was it when he'd noticed other guys looking at her, giving her sideways glances in the hall, running their eyes over her body? Because it's not like he didn't notice those looks they gave her.

Why didn't he do anything about it, then? What was he waiting for? Why didn't he go up to her, in front of all those gawking sheep, and claim her, and show them that she was _his_ meister and that he wasn't going to share?

But she's not some kind of toy, some kind of object he can put possession on.

He notices that the glass is empty. Funny, he doesn't remember drinking out of it. The bartender comes over and refills it for him – two. It's only two glasses, nothing to be worried about. He'll just stay here a little longer, because even though it's loud and the laughs and shouts are annoying, at least he's not alone.

It's getting warmer and he's starting to feel really hot, so he takes off his jacket and dumps it on the floor next to his stool.

He'd lied before, about being shocked at the fact that she'd been asked out. He's not surprised. He is surprised that she's only just now started to receive those looks from their classmates. It's always been clear to him, after all, though the alcohol forces him to admit to himself what he's always known. That she's beautiful. It's not just her looks, though he's been thinking about those emerald eyes and glossy blonde hair more and more often. What sets her apart from other girls, puts her on a whole different level, is that strength she's always had, that head-strong independence.

What is he talking about? Didn't he always get annoyed by the fact that she was so bold and always made snap decisions without asking him? He can't think clearly, his mind is fuzzy.

The glass empties and refills again.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six, or is it seven?

His vision's blurry. Everything just looks like a distorted smear of color and light.

A small, warm hand slips around his neck, and a soft voice whispers in his ear.

"Hey."

He turns his head. In the dim light and the haze, he can make out shiny blonde hair shimmering in the dim red glow.

"Maka?"

"Ma – yeah. Yeah, it's me, Maka," says the voice. "Come dance with me."

She pulls him towards the dance floor, where some people are swaying closely to the music, others grinding – hard. Something feels off, though, even in this drunken state (because now he's drunk, and he knows it), he can tell.

"Maka…I don't remember you being this short…" he mutters. "What happened to Andrew?"

"Andrew?" She giggles, and her voice seems higher, but he can't really tell because it's so loud. His head's pounding. "Who cares about Andrew? I want _you_," she purrs, and slips her arms around his neck, pulling his body against hers. She waits for him to put his arms around her waist, but they're still hanging by his sides. Annoyed, she presses closer against him. "Come on, what are you waiting for?"

What _is_ he waiting for? That's what he wants to know, too. Is he scared? He's not scared, he's Soul Eater Evans. He's taken down kishin and witches.

_Afraid of rejection_, whispers Little Ogre's voice in his head, the nasally voice cutting sharply through the fog in his brain. _Because you're not __good enough__ for her. You're a freak. You've got weird eyes and weird teeth. You're nothing more to her than just a friend, just a partner, just a weapon – a tool._

Ogres seem to be resistant to alcohol, he notes. But she's here now, with him, isn't she? Not with Andrew, but with him, right?

So he puts his arms around her waist, and he pulls her closer. Her hips are too curvy, they don't feel right. She smiles in satisfaction and giggles again, her voice still that odd, shrill tone.

"What were you waiting for?" she repeats.

He wants to know too.

But it doesn't feel right. She slips her hands under his shirt and he freezes. They crawls up his chest like spiders and those uncomfortably warm fingers run over the thick, ropy scar on his chest.

"What is _that_?" she asks, her voice now tinged with disgust.

Now he knows something's wrong. He jerks backwards, pushing her away. He rubs his eyes and blinks, peering through the haze in the bar.

It's not Maka.

_But you knew that, didn't you? Deep down, you knew it. You just pretended like you didn't know_, snickers Little Ogre.

"Just shut up, okay?" he shouts out loud at the annoying demon. "Just leave me alone!"

The girl stumbles back, her eyes wide. She's nowhere near Maka's league. Her blonde hair has that fried, straightened look and she's wearing so much makeup that she looks like a raccoon. Someone pushes him, hard, on his back.

"That's my girlfriend you're talking to," an angry voice growls. He whirls around to see a meaty, buff guy with a crew cut and a tight shirt.

He laughs in the guy's face. "I wasn't talking to her."

"Then who were you talking to, huh?" The guy pushes him again. "Think carefully," he threatens.

He's thinner compared to Angry Boyfriend, but no weight lifting program can compare to years and years of grueling Shibusen training and kishin fighting. Angry Boyfriend only has to impress the girls; he's had to fight for his life, and those fights have made him lean and his muscles hard. He pushes back with ease, sending Angry Boyfriend reeling backwards in shock.

"Just the little voice in my head," he laughs. It's so funny. They don't understand, do they? He starts laughing harder, manically, as his vision begins to swim. He's aware of people starting to back off and give them space.

Something hits him hard on his face, and he stops laughing abruptly, recoiling from the blow. Gingerly, he lifts his fingers to his cheek, checking the damage. Nothing's broken, but a trickle of blood spills from his split lip. Angry Boyfriend's obviously never been in a real fight before. He's slightly disappointed – this will be too easy.

It doesn't matter now though, his bloodlust is up. He stumbles forward a little, dipping his head down so that his hair covers his eyes. He wishes that the ground would quit tilting. He can hear people chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

_Sorry_, he thinks, _this won't be much of a fight._

Angry Boyfriend laughs in his face. "You're not so tough now, are you?" His momentary surprise has been replaced with glee when he realizes that his opponent is drunk as hell. "You're just a weedy little punk, aren't you?" he sneers, pushing him again.

But this time, his head snaps up. He wipes the trickle of blood away on the back of his hand.

"You really shouldn't have done that," he says hoarsely, voice quiet and dangerous. "I'm already pissed off as it is."

Fear flashes in Angry Boyfriend's eyes. There's something weird about those glittering crimson pools. Something tells him that this wasn't the right guy to pick a fight with, but he can't back off now without losing face to the crowd and his girlfriend. Besides, he's twice the size of this guy – he can take him. He sneers at the figure that's bent before him. "Yeah? What's the best you can do?"

Soul smiles at the invitation, baring his jagged teeth.

A flash of metal, something hisses through the air, and all of a sudden there's a cut on the bottom of Angry Boyfriend's chin, near the top of his neck. It's a tiny cut, just deep enough so that blood spills down his neck.

People have stopped chanting now. They're deathly quiet.

Angry Boyfriend lifts his hand to touch the inch-long incision on his skin and stares in shock at his blood smeared fingertips, then stares at the guy, his right arm now a lethal looking blade.

"What the hell?" he screams. "You just tried to kill me!"

Soul snorts impatiently and seizes him by the front of the very tight shirt Angry Boyfriend is wearing. "Leave me alone, okay? You shut up now, or I'll kill you for real," he whispers roughly.

He's dead serious.

Angry Boyfriend clams up immediately and walks over to his girlfriend. "No big deal, I'm alright," he says, pretending that he hadn't been crying like a baby seconds before. Nothing can keep the people at a bar in Death City quiet for long – they've seen it all. Eventually, when they realize nothing interesting is going to happen, they resume to their drinks and dancing.

He's had enough, though; he's got to get home. He weaves unevenly through the crowd, people clearing out of his way and steps outside into the cool night air.

Somehow, miraculously, he manages to get home without getting hit by a car.

He staggers into the bathroom, collapsing before the sink. He's always been able to hold his liquor, but he's never gotten this drunk before. Slowly, he pulls himself up, fingers gripping the edge of the porcelain sink, and he turns on the faucet. A rush of cold water flows from the tap, and he splashes some onto his face, trying to cool down his heated skin. Then he turns off the faucet and presses his face into the towel. Looking up in the mirror behind the sink, he examines his reflection.

He can't identify the face in front of him.

It's the eyes that make it unrecognizable. Those crimson eyes, they're full of so many different emotions. Pain, anger, hate, lust, passion and everything _red_ – it's all reflecting back towards him.

_Is this who I am?_ he thinks to himself. _Someone who gets drunk and winds up in a bar fight, all over a girl? Is that the kind of person that I am?_

But it's Maka, she's not just any other girl.

_What am I waiting for?_

Above all, those red eyes are _tired._ Tired and weary.

He turns off the lights to the bathroom and walks unsteadily towards his room, crashing into the chair in front of his desk.

He'll wait for her to come back.

* * *

_She'll never know how much he regrets waiting so long._

* * *

_~end~_


	5. r e s o n a n c e

**resonance**

**(m a k a)**

* * *

_**1.**_

_She loves his cooking._

Perhaps it's some natural born talent within him, but they both secretly know that when it's his turn to cook the curry, it always seems to taste a little better. He doesn't want the others to find out, though, because a cool guy like him being great at cooking is totally _uncool_, so she keeps it on the down low. He's had years to hone this talent of his – shortly after they'd moved in together, he realized that he'd have to eat his own concoctions, quickly providing a huge incentive for him to cook up something edible. After a whole month of grilled cheese and spaghetti, the only thing either of them knew how to cook, he'd finally cracked and stolen a cookbook from Tsubaki. It was much to Maka's astonishment the next day that she sat down to a dinner of potato gratin and chicken divan.

"I didn't think you even knew what a potato _was._"

"Haha, very funny." But he watched her anxiously to see her reaction and was relieved to hear her ask for thirds.

_He'll never know that the reason she looks forward to her birthday is not because of presents or birthday wishes, but the special banana chocolate-chip pancakes he makes _only_ on her birthday._

_**2.**_

_She loves it when he hangs up his jacket in the closet._

A seemingly meaningless gesture, but he knows how much she hates it when he leaves his possessions lying around the house. As far as guys go, he's pretty good about keeping his room tidy (sort of) and doing his laundry (mostly). It's been several years since she saw mold growing on his socks, at least. She's made sure of _that. _To this very day, he still can't look at their unabridged encyclopedia straight in the face. Sometimes, she'll come home after a grueling day of meister training, tired and mentally prepared to do the laundry and vacuum their apartment. She'll find Soul lounging nonchalantly on the small couch, watching TV, with the laundry fresh and the house free of dust. He'll look up when she walks in, pretending like he didn't notice her (but she doesn't know that he's been waiting all day for her to walk in the front door), and ask her if she's ready to eat dinner yet, 'cause he's starving and what the hell took her so long? And after they eat, he'll shoo her away from the dishes, saying that she probably needs to be uncool and study for the exam they have tomorrow, and that he's given up all hope on passing, so he might as well be useful and wash the plates.

_He'll never know how thankful she is on days like these that she's partnered with him and not with someone like Black*Star – Tsubaki's told her horror stories about the creatures that thrive in the self-proclaimed God surpasser's room._

_**3.**_

_She loves his protectiveness._

Some might call it overbearing and stifling, but he's very indiscreet about it. He pretends like he couldn't give a damn what happens to her, but they both know that he's more than willing to die for her.

"Maka, you better study harder if you wanna stay top of the class!" Ox sneered, his eyes flashing as he pushed his glasses up his nose. She was already stressed about the exam, she didn't need Ox and his snarky comments, but she opened her mouth to make a snappy retort, when –

_CRUNCH!_

Later, as the two were sitting out in the hall, waiting for Sid to deliver the verdict, Maka gave Soul a sidelong glance. "Don't ask me to help you pay for a new pair of glasses. It's your fault that we're going to end up with detention for a week," she warned. "You know what Sid's going to say – it's the meister's duty to keep track of their weapon."

He shrugged, not looking at her. "Wasn't going to ask you to pay. I didn't break them for _you_, his annoying voice was just giving me a headache."

They both knew he was lying through his teeth.

_He'll never know how those small gestures fill up the empty hole left by her parents._

_**4.**_

_She loves it when he gets jealous._

"So, Maka, what are you doing this Saturday?" asks Kilik, leaning against her locker. She shuts her locker door and looks up at him, puzzled.

"I don't think I've got any plans," she says thoughtfully.

He grins broadly. "Do you want to hang out? We could stop by Deathbucks and pick up some coffee. It's pretty chilly out, you know."

She smiles happily. "Sure, I'd – "

"She's busy."

Out of nowhere, Soul steps in between the two, his back towards Kilik, facing Maka.

Kilik backs off immediately. "Oh, whoa man, I didn't know you two were like _that._"

Soul doesn't say anything.

"Excuse us," Maka says sweetly. She seizes the scythe's hand and drags him down the hall, while a confused Kilik is left behind scratching his head.

"What the hell, Soul? You had no right to butt in our conversation!" she hisses angrily. He lets go of her hand, and she's surprised to see him look abashed.

"I just – " He falters unexpectedly.

It's only then that she sees the wild panic in his eyes, the sudden fear flashing in those crimson pools, as though he's about to lose something precious to him. She's quiet for a second, as she feels prickles down her spine and a warmth flooding through her body that she could never feel by looking at Kilik.

"Well…" she says slowly, dragging out her sentence. "I suppose…I'm not really a coffee person, anyways. I'm more of a hot chocolate kind of girl."

She's pleased to see his eyes light up as he lets out an audible sigh of relief. "I know somewhere a few blocks away," he says.

She turns away and begins walking down the hall, hiding her growing smile. "Fine," she calls back over her shoulder. "But you're paying."

_He'll never know how long she's wanted him to ask her on a date._

_**5.**_

_She loves it when he carries her on his back if she's been hurt._

It's not like she _enjoys_ getting hurt – she's not a masochist or anything. But she has to admit that when he grudgingly offers to carry her back home, it makes the blinding pain of her injury just a little more bearable. She rests her chin on his shoulder, the tips of his silvery hair tickling her cheek. Only then does she truly relax after the fight, because she can feel his arms and back supporting her, knowing that he'd never drop her and she has absolute faith in him. Sometimes, she'll fall asleep, and he'll twist his head to the side to check on her. Her face always seems so serene, despite the scratches and blood stains that streak her face like some kind of vulgar war paint, and he can't help but notice that she's always smiling when she falls asleep on his back.

It's completely worth the post backache he gets

If the wound isn't serious, like a sprained ankle or broken wrist (she's lost track of how many times the kishin have aimed for her wrists in an attempt to get her to drop her weapon), he'll be grouchy and act like it's the most uncool thing in the world to have to lug her around back home.

"Lay off the bricks, would you? I'm gonna throw out my back," he mutters to her, knowing full well that she's too tired to Maka Chop him into oblivion.

They both know that it's just a show, though, an attempt to hide the blinding, immobilizing panic that stabs him every time he hears her cry out in pain.

It's only when the wounds are serious (especially if there's blood, because that's when he really starts to panic), that he drops his mask of indifference and lets the fear show through. Then, instead of carrying her on his back, he'll pick her up gently and cradle her in his arms while running back towards Shibusen as fast as he can.

But even then, while she's slipping in and out of consciousness, she doesn't panic or worry, and he always wonders afterwards while sitting beside her cot in Nygus's infirmary why she still has a smile on her face.

_He'll never know how safe she feels when he supports her, because he's the only person she'd trust her life with._

_**6.**_

_She loves it when she can take him shopping and he doesn't complain about it (mostly)._

Shopping's not really her thing, she'd rather stay home and read, but even she has to admit that some of her clothes are more than a little out-dated. Blair had finally persuaded her that wearing the same clothes she's had since she was twelve isn't exactly the best idea, and she's outgrown much of her wardrobe. So she breaks open her piggy bank, mostly filled with bribes from Spirit in a lame attempt to get on her good side (she can't be bough with money, so it makes no difference to her), and prepares to go shopping.

Soul walks out of his room; by the looks of it, he's just woken up (she can tell, because he's only wearing his boxers), even though it's already past noon. He looks at her for a second, then asks her where she's going. When she tells him, he frowns slightly.

"Death Plaza? I've heard lots of rumors of people getting kidnapped there."

She sighs in exasperation. "Please, I know how to take care of myself. I'm a meister, remember?"

His frown deepens. "You're not a meister without a weapon." She opens her mouth to argue, but he holds up a finger. "Wait one sec," he tells her, and he disappears back into his room. A few minutes later, he walks back out, now fully dressed, and shuts the door behind him.

She lifts an eyebrow. "I'm going with you," he announces, pulling on his shoes. She's about to protest, but then thinks better about it, deciding that she'd rather have someone to accompany her on this self-inflicted misery. So she smiles at him instead, and as they walk out the door, she takes the hand he offers her.

He quickly begins to regret his decision once she disappears behind large racks of clothing (though deep down, he knows that he'd rather die of boredom than have her wander the mall by herself). Bored, he tries to find ways to amuse himself and waste time.

"Maka, I'm going to the food court."

"Okay, whatever."

"Maka, I'm going to the bathroom."

"You don't need to tell me that."

"Maka, I'm going to check out the new Call of Duty game."

"Yeah."

"Maka, I'm going to the lingerie section and flirt hot girls that work there."

"Go ahe – wait, what?"

"Gotcha!"

"…."

"Maka, what – "

"MAKA CHOP!"

"*&^%$# !"

And thirty minutes later…

"Soul, stop making weird faces at yourself in the mirror."

Eventually, he runs out of ways to amuse himself and settles down on a bench, falling into a lethargic stupor, but keeping his red eyes open just a crack so that he can make sure that she's okay. She approaches him a while later with one lone shopping bag slung on her arm. When he sees her coming, he stands up and stretches. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he tilts his head to the side and gestures at the bag.

"We've been in here for four hours, and you only have one bag? I'm impressed," he whistles. He doesn't envy Kid – the young Shinigami's told him stories of Liz and Patti's shopping sprees. She shrugs offhandedly and turns to go. He edges closer to her protectively as they fight their way through the swarm of people in the store, shooting the other men he sees suspicious glares.

As soon as they get back home, he collapses face first onto the couch, completely exhausted.

"I'm _never_ going shopping with you again," he proclaims. She just laughs and plops down on the couch next to him, holding up the black jacket she found for him.

_He'll never know that she spent the entire time looking for a new jacket for him._

_**7.**_

_She loves it when he brings her food when she's studying._

She's thankful for her high metabolism. Of course, it helps that she spends most of her life running from angry demons and fighting them off. But a late night snack while studying for a test is always appreciated. She doesn't realize how hungry she gets until he knocks on her door and opens it. She'll turn to find him leaning against the door, a slice of pie in his left hand and a glass of milk in the other. He'll walk in and set the plate and glass down beside her on her desk, and then take a seat on her bed. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and propping his chin on his hands, giving her a look.

"You ought to eat more, you know, especially after skipping dinner last night to study." She smiles at him gratefully, digging into the pie with a fork that he's thoughtfully provided.

"Thanks, Soul," she mumbles around a mouthful of pie. "It's really good."

He shrugs, face turning red. "I was gonna make cherry pie, 'cause I know it's your favorite, but we didn't have any cherries, so Blair gave me a bunch of pumpkins instead."

"No, this is amazing," she says sincerely. When he shifts on the bed, about to get more, she waves him off. "I'm almost done, just got one more chapter left."

He leans back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling above him. "If you're sure. It's just, I don't know, you're really thin and all…" he trails off.

She laughs tiredly, rubbing her eyes and setting down the plate to pick up her pencil. "Don't worry about me, Soul. I just forget about meals sometimes when I'm studying."

"You're always studying."

"I'll be fine."

_He'll never know how much she depends on him for nourishment._

_**8.**_

_She loves it when he carries her back to her bed when she's fallen asleep at her desk._

It took her a while to figure out how she went from sleeping at her desk to sleeping comfortably in her bed. At first, she thought that she'd stumbled to her bed after studying and forgotten about it. It didn't take her long to realize that it wasn't a conscious effort she made, though, so then she thought that perhaps she sleepwalked to her bed. After thinking this theory over, however, she realized that it didn't explain how her textbooks were always closed with the worksheets tucked neatly into the pages, and how the covers were always pulled tightly over her.

And then, maybe a month later, she came to the conclusion that it must be Soul. After coming to this conclusion, she sat quietly at her desk for a few moments (_because he cared enough about her to stay up late at night and wait for her to fall asleep at her desk)_. She averaged about three to four hours of sleep a day, and he'd suffered those long, sleepless nights with her without her knowledge. Glancing at the clock on her wall, she saw it was 1:30 in the morning. She got up from her desk to test out her theory. She carefully opened the door to his room. The lights were out, but the curtains were open, allowing the moonlight to stream in and illuminate the room. He was at his desk, his head buried in his arms so that she couldn't see his face. The moonlight turned his hair from silver to a pure white, and as she watched, he shifted in the chair slightly. She walked over to him and tapped him lightly on the desk. His head jerked up immediately and he looked at her in surprise.

"Maka…what are you doing?"

She shrugged. "I could ask you the same. Why are you sleeping at your desk?"

"Because I was waiting – " He froze. Getting up from his desk, he climbed into his own bed. "No reason. 'Night, Maka."

She turned to leave his room, turning her head away from him in case the moon illuminated the tears now flowing freely down her face. "Good night, Soul."

After that, she always made sure she walked over from her desk to her bed before falling asleep.

_He'll never know the reason for her sudden change in sleeping habits._

_**9. **_

_She loves it when he tries to study for tests._

"Soul, you know this makes both of us look bad!" she said, irritated when she found out that she was called in for remedial classes after Soul failed his fourth test in a row. The only meister/weapon pair stuck with remedial lessons was Black*Star and Tsbuaki, but that came as no surprise to anyone – the duo had only managed to collect nine souls, despite Black*Star's formidable abilities.

Soul mumbled something incoherent, but Maka was on a roll now. "And you _know_ they take away one soul from our count for each remedial class we have to take. We'll never make you a Death Scythe at this rate," she shouted, slamming her fists against the wall in frustration.

"Jeez, Maka, calm down," he said, trying to placate his irate meister."It'll just – "

"No, Soul, you don't _understand!_ I _have_ to make you a Death Scythe!" and he was appalled to see that her green eyes were bright with tears. He'd never seen her so upset before.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, putting a hand on her arm. She shook it off, and turned away.

"I just…need some time," she muttered, and stalked off in the opposite direction down the hall.

He waited fifteen minutes, then followed her in the direction she'd gone. She hadn't walked far, he found her leaning against her locker, head tilted back towards the ceiling. She didn't move when he approached her, so he stood in front of her until she was forced to look at him.

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head. Slowly, he walked up to her until their faces were inches apart.

"Let me try something," he whispered, and put his hands on either side of her face. Her eyes narrowed sharply, but she didn't pull away. He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes.

_Soul Resonance._

_He found himself in a room, not the Black Room, but a circular room, with a large mirror wrapping around the entire wall. He was standing back to back against Maka, but only her reflection showed on the mirror. The reflection shimmered, and it stepped free of the mirror to face him. Behind him, he could feel Maka tense. The reflection looked unhealthily thing and pale, as though only skin were holding the bones together. He could hardly tell it was Maka, it was so emaciated. The reflection circled the pair._

"_Weak," it whispered. "Unfit to be a meister. Not fast, or strong, or agile, always lagging behind the other meisters, always depending on other people to get work done. You study so much to make up for your lack of athleticism, but books won't help you in fights." The reflection shimmered and the form shifted. It looked like Maka in her late twenties, but there was something different about the face. He realized that it was her mother. "You'll never be as good as me," the reflection sneered. He could feel her shoulders shaking behind him, and he reached behind to hold her cold hands. "Always, you'll always live in my shadow, you'll only be known as Kami Albarn's daughter." Maka collapsed onto the floor, and he knelt down, shaking her shoulders urgently._

"_Maka, Maka, look at me!" he shouted._

"_Failure," whispered the reflection. It echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls._

_Failure…failure…failure…_

His eyes snapped open, and he pulled back from her, shaking. Trying to steady himself with deep breaths, he looked back at her. She was still leaning against the lockers, inspecting him shrewdly through narrowed eyes.

"Now do you understand?" she asked softly.

He looked up at her, breathing hard.

_What he didn't know…_

"I'm going to talk to Stein."

Stein leaned back in his chair, inspecting the teenager before him. "Well," he said slowly, "I'll remove the remedial lesson…but only if you can get a perfect score on a make-up test I give you."

Soul gulped. _A perfect score? _He'd never scored over an 83 in his life, but he steeled his resolve anyways. For Maka, at least. "Fine," he drawled.

"Good, then I'll give you three days to study. Now get out of my office before I dissect you – I need a new test subject for tomorrow's lesson."

The professor exhaled smoke from his cigarette, pleased with himself. Not only had he managed to get Soul and Maka to create a Soul Resonance powerful enough to allow them to read the mind of the other partner, he'd also managed to bring up the boy's grade. Stein snuffed out the cigarette, feeling pleased with himself. Now, if he could only do something about Black*Star's grades…

Maka arrived at the apartment by herself to discover their small home quiet. Puzzled, she opened Soul's room and found him poring over their textbooks and worksheets. He didn't notice her, so she closed the door to his room, smiling sadly to herself.

A few days later, Stein informed Maka that she would no longer have to take remedial classes.

_He'll never know that Stein was the mastermind behind his sudden increase in grades._

_**10.**_

_She loves that he's always there to comfort her, no matter what._

Because a true weapon and meister pair knows what the other partner needs, even though they themselves may not know.

"You sure you're okay?" he asks concernedly, holding the door open for her. She looks at him unhappily.

"Yeah, I think I'm going to go to bed early," she says wearily and disappears into her room. He follows suit, sitting down on his own bed. Try as he might, he can't sleep, knowing what she's going through right now.

They'd gone to the grocery store to pick up supplies for dinner. It was a new marketplace, built conveniently just around the block, so they'd decided to walk. Soul soon realized that the marketplace was near a cabaret club, but before he could steer Maka away, she'd looked through the window and seen a familiar head of red hair.

He sighs and gets up. It's no use; he can't get any sleep, and he knows that she can't either. He pushes open the door to her room and finds her crying on her bed, holding a picture of her mother and father and her, back when she was little. He sits down next to her and pulls her onto his lap, allowing her to cry into his chest and just let go of everything she's kept bottled up.

"Four? I didn't even think that was possible. It's like he doesn't even _care._"

He doesn't say anything, but holds her tightly until she's out of tears and she gives a final shudder.

"Sorry, your shirt's all wet now."

He kisses the top of her head gently. "It doesn't matter, Maka. I'll always be here for you, after all."

_He'll never know how much she loves him for those words._

_~end~_


End file.
